


And Here He Was

by TomarryHereWeGoAgain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Look I barely know what’s going to happen, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Time Travel, other characters but I won’t tag them until I’m sure they’ll have more importance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-05-15 00:16:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19284169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomarryHereWeGoAgain/pseuds/TomarryHereWeGoAgain
Summary: Harry wakes up Christmas morning, confused, in a different time. It’s very much not Christmas anymore.Classic Potter Luck.His curiosity rears victorious against his better judgement, and he seeks out one Tom Marvolo Riddle who happens to make a habit of “unexpectedly” running into Harry at the oddest moments.





	1. Fuck it.

Harry wasn’t quite sure what to think.

 

”Fuck...”

Waking up, a buzzing sensation of accidental magic still lingering under his skin, in some offshoot of what is no doubt, Diagon Alley. Just up the way, he’s sure, from where Harry was currently sprawled on his back, forearms holding him up weakly, vehemently protesting the strain to the point of trembling. 

”Fuck.”

 

Well. He just really wasn’t sure what to think.

 

Finally giving in, he allowed himself a moment of relief. His head hitting the ground with a slight thud, adding to a suspicious headache he only now realised was pressing against his skull. He didn’t remember drinking that much Fire Whiskey at last nights Ministry’s Christmas Eve celebrations, but then again George had been pushing a variety of drinks into his hands. Harry always had such a hard time telling him no. 

It was impossible. He hasn’t been able to refuse him since the war.

Guilt was something he wore like an ever constant cloak on his shoulders.

”No,” but even then, Harry could clearly remember flooing to Malfoy Estate. Hermione talking him into staying the night, the cheer of Christmas Eve in her smile and Draco passed out on the floor near Scorpius and Teddy. 

 

_“Maybe you can help me drag these three dead boys to their rooms?”_

_“‘Mione, there’s no way in hell I’m dragging Draco Malfoy into your bedroom. I’ll happily help my godsons to theirs, though.”_

 

“But no...” Harry mutters, again, to the air on this strangely not cold winter day. 

“But no...I  _didn’t_  stay the night.” He recalls rather quickly that helping Hermione had only taken half an hour or so. He ended up apparating to Grimmauld Place upon realising how many expected yet entirely unexpected house guests the Malfoy’s would be subjected to in the morning. After attempting the 5th guest bedroom and finding another bright red head and a few other familiar faces, he gave up and called it a night in his own home. 

Harry vividly remembered curling up next to the fireplace, a book from the ever-intriguing Black Library in hand, a cup of tea not too far from reach. He could taste the fond recollection of the evening settling into his bones, adding years to his unageing features. It had hit him again then at that moment how unsatisfied he was — it crept up always ready to remind Harry of his regrets and past failures in the wake of his neverlasting contentedness.

 

All too suddenly there was a familiar itch in the back of his mind. 

 

Harry hadn’t felt it in years, decades. The almost seductive whispers calling from deep within Grimmauld Place. He was sure they would lead him to a well kept and very secure warded chest of items: A wand he doesn't need yet sings when in his hands. A stone he had long ago reset into a ring, never worn for fear of being unable to take it off. And a cloak unyielding to age, glimmering even in the darkness.  

Harry knew it was getting harder. Harder to not acknowledge Ron’s fading red hair, Hermione’s eyes crinkling with well-worn fondness, Teddy’s fast approaching wedding day. Ginny and Dean’s daughter had just given birth to a bright-eyed bundle of fire; he could feel the Gryffindor seeping off her in waves, and it was getting  _so much harder._  Andromeda falling ill, leaving Teddy with only Harry as his immediate family far too soon, always too soon.

By the time Harry had realised the chill he was feeling wasn’t from the fireplace finally burning out on a lonely, early Christmas morning, it was too late. His unbreakable wards had gently dissolved, quickly fading away from barely a brush of Harry’s magic.

 

And here he was.

The Hallows must have done something. 

 

Frustration clawed Harry’s throat, ”Stupid.  _So stupid_ , what were you bloody thinking Potter.” More aware now he could feel the heat of the Resurrection Stone on his right hand, the press of what is no doubt the Elder Wand sheathed cold against his left forearm and a distinct weight from the folded up fabric of Invisibility Cloak all too familiar from years of wandering around Hogwarts after curfew. 

”Merlin. I should just lay here forever. Cast a notice-me-not and lay here until the ground swallows me whole.”

He was still in his formal robes from the evening before, too desperate for a moment of peace when he arrived at Grimmauld to consider changing for the evening. He was grateful for the decision now, only slightly annoyed at the soon to be innocuous though definitely bold in presumptions Prophet headlines tomorrow morning or even this evening if they caught him quick enough. Though slipping on the cloak was a tempting idea to avoid any of that.

 

Harry could just read them now,  _”Harry Potter Boy-Who-Won Caught on a Walk Of Shame?”_

 

Finally, the will to get off the ground won out in his musings of laying till the end of time or figuring out what damage took place in his blackout with the Hallows. After a thorough dusting with his hands only to give up and cast a few silent scourgify’s, he carefully made his way to the central alley.

And if someone recognised him? 

 

Well. Fuck it.


	2. Circulation Date: July 11th, 1950.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry In Denial James Potter strikes again.

All that Gryffindor confidence paid off when Harry walked entirely into Diagon alley, blending seamlessly into the crowds. It was an odd feeling, he realised, being simultaneously confused and relieved, a pair of emotions he hadn’t felt together like this in some time. It was kind of refreshing and nostalgic.

 

Hermione would probably look at him like he was an idiot when he’d explain it to her. Ron would probably laugh and tell Harry he has finally lost it.

 

Accidentally meeting eyes with several people while navigating his way to The Leaky Cauldron and not a single person stared longer than appropriate or came up to shake his hand. It was bizarre and oddly fascinating, Harry had to double check his robe pockets to make sure he didn’t actually put the Invisibility Cloak on in some strange mini blackout between leaving the side alley and entering Diagon.

 

And if that wasn’t confusing enough, the very not snow covered streets were what really threw him for a loop.

 

Harry felt compelled to remove his over robes, the weather such a stark difference from the night before, the heavy winter fabric was almost unbearable. He silently cast a cooling charm which offered a little relief and paused when he noticed something _odd._

Just after Ollivanders, a bit before Gringotts and Knockturn was a small shop that had opened recently in the last three to four years or so. It was quickly becoming Teddy’s favourite haunt. They offered a wide variety of seasonal cakes and beverages. On more than one occasion Harry was dragged out at the crack of dawn to purchase some speciality products and a few freshly made Treacle Tarts. Even he had to admit that they were well worth it.

 

Or at least there _was_ a small shop.

 

That same shop was nowhere to be seen now, even though Harry rapidly approached Gringotts. In fact, as he started slowing his pace until he stopped off to the side, avoiding the rush of magicals, Harry was baffled by how _odd_ everything around him looked. It was as if all of Diagon took a step to the left. Everything seemed just _slightly off._ The familiar stone pathways were almost brighter; the shops and storefronts all appeared to have a similar old fashioned theme. If Harry were crazy enough, he would almost say he had stepped into the _past_.

 

But that was unreasonable.

“You’re really losing it today aren’t you Potter...” Harry muttered to himself, shaking his head. He decided to keep his head down and wouldn’t bother dwelling on the alley’s sudden desire to mix things up. Writing it off as a community event, something Hermione had been dying to try for years now.

 

_“Wouldn’t it be wonderful, Harry? A large, public social event. Something like a Muggle Fair! We could get the whole community in on it, maybe do something festive with Diagon Alley?” Hermione’s passionate pitch was quickly interrupted._

_“Yeah Harry, wouldn’t that be great? Imagine the food.” Ron, who had only moments ago, appeared not to be listening, started sighing dreamily with a look that could challenge Luna._

_Hermione rolled her eyes, "Ronald, not everything is about food. Think about the sense of togetherness and how engaging this would be.”_

 

Harry could feel the smile slowly growing on his face. It must be all that Christmas fondness lingering in his thoughts. His family was all he can think about this morning.

But in his attempts to stay unnoticed and avoid acknowledging the oddness of the alley, Harry wound up walking head first into someone. It didn’t feel like a rough impact, but Teddy always said he had a thick skull. The poor Witch now on the ground after the not too gentle fall certainly looked like she had a thing or two to say about Harry’s thickheadedness as well.

 

”Shite. I’m so sorry, I was lost in thought and not paying attention to where I was going.” Harry bent down to collect the Daily Prophet the Witch had dropped and offered her a hand up.

She scoffed, ”Clearly.” Harry’s hand was studiously ignored while she stood back up and tramped off, knocking Harry’s shoulder in haste. Or on purpose.

 _‘Probably on purpose.’_ Harry thought to himself.

“Oh wait..Miss!” He spun around, trying to catch her attention. “Miss! You forgot your copy of the paper!” His shouts fell on deaf ears, as they made their way into one of the many shops. With a sigh, Harry accepted that he was now the proud new owner of this copy of the Prophet and took to reading the headlines.

 

**_“5 YEARS LATER, A WORLD WITHOUT GRINDELWALD.”_ **

_Circulation Date: July 11th, 1950._

 

That familiar itch in the back of his mind grew in intensity. The pounding headache Harry had shaken off earlier returned in full force, the pain almost causing his knees to buckle at the suddenness. He rested a hand on the side of a building nearest to him, leaning his weight into the solid structure in hopes of keeping himself upright as he rode out the discomfort. A hysterical bark of laughter fell from his lips.

"This isn’t possible. That woman must have been a historian. A record keeper for the Ministry. She must have found some old archives while researching." Harry reasoned with himself because any other answers where ridiculous. Impossible.

 

Harry was _not_ 88 years in the past.

 

It was still Christmas morning. Harry was expected to be at the Malfoy Estate. Hermione was going to be absolutely livid with him sneaking home in the middle of the night. A no doubt convivial and rowdy lunch would be held in one of the larger dining rooms. Luna and Neville would floo in a hair late as usual with an unbelievable tale explaining why. Everyone would be laughing well into the night as the Yule Log burned away filling the air with potent protection magic. Melding into the magical cores of all present, keeping them from any misfortunes until it was time to light next years Log.

Harry took a deep, steadying breath, "Right. That’s right. I’ll just go to the Cauldron and floo home."

After a few minor stumbles, Harry had easily quickened his pace, his attention steadfast after his slight hysteria. The Hallows on his person burned hotter than the weather, through any comfort the cooling charm provided. In no time he had crossed Diagon Alley and found himself at the brick passage to The Leaky Cauldron. Making his way past the open courtyard, he slipped into the ever dingy and welcoming space. Harry expected to find Hannah Finch-Fletchley née Abbott’s bright-eyed son handling the bar.

 

Coming face to face with a young Tom, the barkeep was the last person Harry expected.

 

"Fuck."

It occurred to Harry then.

He was, _most definitely_ , 88 years in the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so howdy folks.  
> I started this fic with no idea what was going to happen or what I wanted to do with it. This was mainly a random thing that came at me. After a day or so of sitting with it, I now have an extensive timeline on every event that happened after 1925 and before 1956. I now have every character’s birthday and age on a spreadsheet, and I have a loose but workable plot. Hold on tight because ya dude has never written a multichapter fic before and I’m trying my b e s t.
> 
> This still has no beta.


	3. He’s got 88 years to figure it out after all.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wants more Fire Whiskey.

If someone had told Harry that he would live to be 57 _after_ killing the Dark Lord Voldemort and claiming the title Master of Death by _accidentally_ collecting the three Deathly Hallows—which stopped him from _aging_  sometime after his 22nd birthday.

  
He would hope they were having a laugh.

  
If someone had told Harry all of that and then mentioned on Christmas morning of his 57th year, he would be forcibly taken back in time to the _middle of 1950_.

  
He would then kindly direct them to St. Mungos.

And yet here he was. No one had stopped to tell Harry any of this, and he was beginning to think Luna was right when she said his Quibbler Quiz results mentioned he should go off to be a Fantasy Writer. He was also beginning to think he should take the floo to St. Mungo’s himself. Tell the first Healer he sees to admit him immediately and pray they keep him locked away for the safety of Wizarding and Muggle Kind.

  
Instead, Harry was seated at the bar, shot of untouched Fire Whiskey placed in front of him while he listened to a jolly barkeep by the name of Tom prattle on about exciting gossip from the past few days. Tom, who should be dead because Harry remembered all too well every funeral he had been to in his time. Tom, who Harry had never seen so young and full of life. Tom, who left The Leaky Cauldron to Hannah Abbott when he decided to retire out in the countryside.

Harry was grateful for the drink as he tossed it back, the burn searing away his rampant thoughts and filling him with that powerful kick of courage. He let that bliss calm him enough to trick him into a false sense of unstoppability.

  
_’I’m in 1950, what could go wrong? I’m sure getting back will be easy. I control the Hallows; it’s not like they can keep me here or stop me from going home. Everything is fine.’_

_’Everything is fine.’_

  
_’Merlin. I am fucked.’_

 

Harry could feel his spiralling descent into madness. It felt a lot like that headache he woke up with, but that could have been because he let his head fall forward and smack itself against the bar top. It felt like the dying courage from the Fire Whiskey.

It felt like knowing he wouldn’t hug Hermione ever again, wouldn’t lose to Ron in a round of Wizarding Chess again, wouldn’t go to the Muggle Movies with Teddy again. Oddly enough, all Harry could do was laugh.

  
_’The Daily Prophet would love this. Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Won, finally gone mad! Is this the Era of a New Dark Lord?’_

 

Harry could make excuse after excuse for the reasons Diagon Alley looked odd, or why that Witch had a paper from the 1950s. He could write off Teddy’s favourite shop suddenly going missing and the warm winter weather. But a living, breathing Tom the Barkeep couldn’t be explained away. His denial wasn’t _that_ strong. Even Harry knew when to step back and accept that his life just wasn’t normal and never would be. Everything that can go wrong will go wrong when Harry Potter was involved.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t _hope_ he was right.

  
Even if all that hope was dashed in less than an hour.

The year 1950. Did anything significant happen that year?  
It was during peacetime; the Muggle and Magical war had finally ended, Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald in ’45. He was placed in Nurmengard and died there when Voldemort killed him in 1998.

Voldemort.  
Lord Voldemort.  
_Tom Riddle._

Fuck.

Tom Riddle was very much alive in 1950. He would have to be no older than 23. Probably somewhere in between his third and fourth Horcrux making.

  
Harry felt the urge to drop his head against the bar again.

  
Tom had graduated in ’45, already having made the Gaunt Ring and Diary into Horcruxes. He would have asked to be the new Defence Professor and get turned down because of Dumbledore insisting. Which would then push Tom into his hunt for Ravenclaw’s Diadem in Albania, one that turns fruitful, allowing him to cut off another piece of his soul like it was nothing.

  
What did he do when he returned to England?

_’Oh, Merlin. He’s working down in Knockturn Alley at Borgin and Burkes. The young and rising Dark Lord is currently knee-deep in Dark Artifacts probably seeking out his other vessels.’_

  
The thought made Harry pause.

  
_‘He’s in Knockturn Alley right now. I could go and really quickly Avada Kefuck-his-ass-up and then live out my days as a Dark Lord killing hermit.’_

  
Harry groaned.

_‘Don’t be stupid Potter what are you thinking.'_ Tom Riddle only has 3 Horcruxes at the moment. He’s, mostly, sane. In fact, a lot of his early ideas were solid and understandable; too many times has the International Statue of Secrecy been almost completely blown by Harry’s time.

  
Riddle’s early campaign hadn’t always been blood purity and death to Muggles. He wanted a stronger separation between the Muggle and Magical worlds for security. He wanted to educate Muggleborn’s before they started Hogwarts. Give them a chance to actually learn Wizarding Customs and Beliefs, rather than us pushing them aside to make Muggleborn’s more comfortable. He wanted to save traditions and stop the banning of “Dark Magic”. Magic was Magic. There was never a need to label it or restrict the use of one when arguments could be made that the other half was equally as dangerous. It’s the caster, not the Magic.

  
Magical communities were becoming rare. We were too late to stop the lasting damage made from previous incompetence. To have a sane Tom Riddle with his better ideals attacking the Muggle problem now before it got out of hand would be extremely beneficial to the future Magical World. Britain could lead by example and possibly share tactics with other Magical Nations to prevent any outings.

  
If Tom Riddle was anything other than the most powerful Dark Lord of Harry’s era, Tom Riddle was the perfect potential Politician of his era.

  
And so Harry with his head on the bar of The Leaky Cauldron in 1950 quickly resolved himself to two facts.

One: finding a way home could wait. He’s got 88 years to figure it out after all.

Two: Harry was going to make Tom Riddle a good _ish_ (within reason Harry wasn’t asking for miracles), sane, Politician and hopefully save many future Magical Communities and the Statue Of Secrecy in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the love the past two chapters! Sorry I've been kind of sitting on this one. I've had it ready to go for a while now, but I completely forgot to post it because I got hit with the creativity stick by the all mighty writing godmother for a totally different fic idea. First chapter for that is already up so feel free to take a peek!

**Author's Note:**

> Hia, this is my first time writing in this fandom I'm nervous but excited. I genuinely don’t know where this story will go and it’s not beta’d. I'm following my gut and seeing what happens. Wish me luck. 
> 
> Stalk me on Tumblr [@tomarryherewegoagain](https://tomarryherewegoagain.tumblr.com/)


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